no word for blue
by Ivory Muse
Summary: The princess is good at many things and the best at self-destruction. Azula/Ty Lee.


warnings for self-harm and a lot of rambling. set between the chase and the drill.

* * *

She watches, as the princess trains.

Traveling the Earth Kingdom with her old friends is _strange_, more familiar and yet more distant than she thought it would be. It's cold and dusty even at the apex of spring— having spent the past two years in the colonies, Ty Lee should be used to it, but she can't seem to shake the shivery discontent pooling around her bones, the metallic aftertaste of hopes too high and results too low. Mai is listless and apathetic, twice the blank slate she was when they were children; being forced to hunt down Zuko like an animal has drained her humanity drier than the Si Wong Desert. And Azula—

Azula leaps straight up in the air and executes a complicated series of punches and kicks, makes a brilliant cerulean contrast to the faded browns all around them. She is panting hard as she lands, cheeks flushed and tunic sodden with sweat— the sun is sinking beneath the trees, and it's obvious that she's been out for hours, unnoticing. The fire seems to flow so easily from her extended hands, her focus razorsharp and her flames ethereal. She doesn't think Azula's ever lost a fight—

— until now.

"'Zula," Ty Lee calls, stepping into sight, "Mai and I are gonna eat dinner... aren't you hungry?"

Azula jerks her head irritably, noticing the other girl's presence for the first time. She is so beautiful, Ty Lee thinks, even with smeared lip paint and streaks of kohl under her eyes. "No," she says, and begins another kata.

Ty Lee frowns, though she hates frowning; it always turns her aura this dingy gray. "You've been out here for ages. Don't you want a break?"

That was a mistake. Azula spins around and shoots a blast of fire in Ty Lee's direction— it dissipates a few feet beyond the tip of her braid. "A _break_?" she snarls. "Maybe to a pair of slackers like you and Mai this mission is just a little side-amusement, but I can't afford to fail _again_. I can't afford to be shown up by a twelve-year-old boy if I want to show my face in front of my father. Does that answer your question, darling?"

As dangerous as it is— on par with approaching a rabid wolf-lion— Ty Lee walks over to her. Azula really does look terrible, even for the most beautiful, perfect girl in the world. "If you're tired and hurt, you can't fight," she says softly. "Come on. We got some roast duck— your favorite!"

"Food is a distraction," Azula mutters, almost to herself, and moves into the fluid stance required for lightning generation. "Impurity. Go away, Ty Lee. You're the biggest distraction of all."

Her loose sleeve has fallen down, and Ty Lee can see blotchy marks on her arm— against her better judgment, she rolls it up with gentle fingers. Azula, oddly enough, does not slap her or flinch away. Her face is blank.

The bruises form a lurid watercolor, blue and purple, covering a large enough expanse to make Ty Lee suppress a gasp; it looks as if a storm has erupted beneath her pale skin. "What happened?"

"I got hit," Azula says, refusing to avert her gaze.

"You're lying." Ty Lee is the only person who can ever tell. There is nobody who works harder than Azula, has higher standards. There is nobody who punishes herself more harshly when she fails. "This should be iced."

"Don't presume to give me orders." Azula does shove her aside, then, and ozone splits the reddening sky before she can blink. A perfect bolt. Even Ty Lee, with her pedestrian knowledge of firebending, sees that. "Lucky for you I'm so—"

She bends over, gasping, and the only sound that escapes her lips is a harsh, wheezing rattle. Obviously, the recoil was too much for her wracked body to handle, the animal instinct of self-preservation making itself known.

"You're _crazy_," Ty Lee says, and kisses her. Azula, kitten-weak, tastes like smoke and blood and ruptured chi. Like a broken thing. Please don't die, she tries to express in the touch of her fingertips. "Come inside before you blow up."

Azula spits crimson from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes are sharp. Ty Lee thinks about how suicide must feel on the tongue, the cloying honor of seppuku, and wants to vomit. "You forget yourself," the princess rasps._ I forget myself_. "We're not equals, circus freak, just because I let you into my bed. I gave you everything and I can take it away."

The acid tone of her voice would have made Ty Lee cry when she was ten. Azula once twisted her arm behind her back and broke her wrist just to hear the sickening snap. This is the same.

"I love you," Ty Lee says, as if that holds any meaning. Azula is very skilled at leeching the adoration out of people's marrow and leaving them bleached dry, after all.

"I don't." She coughs again, bitterly, and throws her head back imperious. "Go."

Ty Lee looks down at the scar on her wrist, where the bone jutted through. She looks at Azula— indomitable, demanding, unwilling to accept that there is anything in this world she can't mold to her whim. If she wanted, she could paralyze the princess before she knew what was coming. She could destroy her. She could drag her back to their tent and make her rest her battered flesh. A web of possibilities.

But Ty Lee is not strong. Not strong enough to shove someone like Azula over the edge, _or_ drag her back.

"Okay," she sing-songs, a tight, artificial smile plastered on her face. "More duck for me, then!"

She might as well have stayed silent. Azula has assumed her stance again, and when there are sparks cracking between her synapses, she devours the lightning bolt— she _becomes_ it.


End file.
